


winter more alive

by strikedawn



Category: Given (Anime), Given (Manga)
Genre: (at least for the anime), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, set anytime during the manga after Uenoyama and Mafuyu get together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 04:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20867840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikedawn/pseuds/strikedawn
Summary: Graveyards in such small neighborhoods held a different kind of air. Sorrow and sadness hung in a different way here than they could have ever done in those of bigger, more populated cities. In the graveyards of small towns, of small neighborhoods where everyone knew each other, each tombstone held a familiar name, and each deep recess in the wall held the remains of a loved one. It wasn’t about gentle disposal here; it was about building a monument to someone lost, so they could always find their way back home.Yuki’s grave was something like that.-Or: Mafuyu, Uenoyama, and the anniversary of Yuki's death.





	winter more alive

**Author's Note:**

> Given has become very important to me in very little time, so please consider this my love letter to this beautiful series.

“Uenoyama-kun.”

It took Uenoyama a second to realize the voice was real, not a figment of his sleepy imagination. He had been dozing off as Mafuyu practiced, right there in their private nook on the stairs—Mafuyu had gotten good enough in the last months for Uenoyama not to despair every time Mafuyu missed a chord or followed the wrong tempo—, but the calling of his name brought him back to reality, even as the darkness of his inner elbow tried to pull him under again.

The stairs were cold at this time of the year, harsh winter weather trying to reach them through the windowpanes, but still Uenoyama felt so warm…

“…Uenoyama-kun?”

“Mm, what.”

Unsurprisingly, nothing followed Mafuyu’s soft calling. Uenoyama had gotten better at that too, lately; his patience covered the empty spaces Mafuyu’s hesitation left behind now. So he waited as Mafuyu thought, fighting against sleep to listen to what his boyfriend had to say.

It was a hard battle, though, he thought as he curled in on himself, closer to Mafuyu’s side. It was so warm…

“Do you have plans for Sunday?”

Uenoyama frowned. Sunday… it was only Tuesday, why was Mafuyu asking about Sunday already? “—Not really,” Uenoyama opened his eyes, only for his vision to be full of the soft color of Mafuyu’s sweater. There was a spot of a more vibrant color at his peripherals too: Gibson red, less shiny than when Uenoyama first met Mafuyu, but still spotless. “Why, do you wanna go somewhere?”

Again, the answer took a moment to arrive. Uenoyama wasn’t sleepy anymore; that red color had brought him sharply into awareness, and while he had done nothing to move from his curled up position, Uenoyama had no doubt there was no chance of him falling asleep again.

“I want you to come with me,” Mafuyu finally said, voice so soft Uenoyama wouldn’t have been able to hear him if it wasn’t for the fact that each of his senses was set on Mafuyu, and Mafuyu only. He could taste the bread Mafuyu had had for lunch still on his mouth, smell the lotion he used to fight the effects of the cold on his cracked knuckles, touch the softness of Mafuyu’s school pants with the back of his hand. He could see the Gibson tightly tucked against Mafuyu’s chest. And he could hear the strain in Mafuyu’s voice, beneath the softness. “Please.”

Uenoyama could ask where to. He could ask about time, whether they would go during the morning, or late in the evening. He would need to know what kind of clothes he would have to wear, or if he would have to tell Yayoi not to wait for him for dinner.

Uenoyama had every right to ask where to.

But still he didn’t, because Mafuyu —knuckles white on the guitar and face angled away—wasn’t offering an answer on his own.

Because, in all honesty, Uenoyama didn’t care about any of that.

As long as he was with Mafuyu, he didn’t care about anything else.

“Sure,” Uenoyama said in the end, closing his eyes once again. “Wherever you want.”

Mafuyu’s surprised gasp was as soft as his voice, but it made a pleasing warmth unfurl somewhere deep in Uenoyama’s chest. The sound was different than before, after all—less worried, a whole lot more careful.

When Uenoyama felt Mafuyu’s fingers on his cheek though, leaving behind a soft caress, that warmth traveled to pool at his cheeks in a betraying blush.

“Thank you, Uenoyama-kun.”

_‘Aaaaaaah, I can’t handle it—!’_

That was something that hadn’t changed at all, during the last months.

Uenoyama was still weak to anything Mafuyu did or say.

“D-don’t think you can skip practice, though,” Uenoyama said after a short groan, turning onto his back with arms crossed behind his head to stop himself from doing something stupid, like curling his arms around Mafuyu’s waist to bury his face in his stomach. The floor was cold through his school uniform, but Uenoyama welcomed it. His eyes were still closed when he added: “The gig is in a couple of weeks and you’re still sloppy with your transitions.”

“Mm,” Mafuyu agreed, and his hands moved so the Gibson sat steadily on his lap. “Which one should I practice now?”

“_Marutsuke_,” Uenoyama replied immediately. “Your chorus is a mess.”

Far from feeling discouraged, Mafuyu giggled softly at Uenoyama’s grumpy criticism. But nothing else was said; a moment later, Mafuyu’s voice filled the silence of their private place, those few acapella lines that always managed to play with Uenoyama’s heartstrings.

The chorus was a mess once again, but at least Uenoyama waited until the end to let Mafuyu know.

* * *

Sunday arrived with gray skies and the threat of a snowstorm, and Uenoyama would have given anything to stay at home under the kotatsu and pretend there was no such thing as the outdoors.

But the clock of the station ticked to let him know he was in fact outside, and the cold air that blew through the ruffled layers of his scarf was only the exclamation point to that realization.

_‘So cold—!’_ Uenoyama bemoaned internally, thrusting his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat. He even started to jump on the spot, trying to make the blood in his toes unfreeze and flow again.

Maybe sneakers hadn’t been the best idea today.

_‘Mafuyu, where the hell are—‘_

“Uenoyama-kun.”

Uenoyama jumped even higher on his spot, surprised at the even voice right at his left. He turned, arms flailing around in case he needed to fight or flight—but of course it was just Mafuyu, dark guitar case giving him a width and a height that wasn’t his own, but that had still looked terrifying at the corner of Uenoyama’s eye.

“D-don’t sneak up on me like that!” Uenoyama barked, pretending he hadn’t been about to shriek just a second ago.

“Sorry,” Mafuyu replied, not sounding apologetic at all.

But he didn’t sound amused either, as he often did when Uenoyama flailed like that. If anything he sounded impassive, standing there in that gray, wintery Sunday at 10 AM, at the entrance of the train station. He was wrapped in a big coat, but the guitar case at his back seemed extra heavy today, making Mafuyu tip forward slightly. Making Mafuyu seem _small._

Uenoyama knew better than to ask about the case — _ why did you bring it today, are you practicing, do you want me to carry it for you— _ , so he didn’t.

Instead, he concentrated on a more serious matter.

“Honestly, is your head in the clouds?” Uenoyama said with a sigh, and in the next blink he unwrapped his scarf and wrapped it again, around Mafuyu’s uncovered neck this time, making sure both his windpipe and his very red nose were well covered and warm. “Who goes out in this weather without a scarf? And you’re our vocalist, too! Take care of yourself, damn it.”

Over the deep blue of the scarf, Mafuyu blinked his big, warm eyes at Uenoyama, whose hands stilled as he pushed the ends of the scarf under the lapels of Mafuyu’s coat and pulled the zipper up. The tips of Mafuyu’s hair brushed against Uenoyama’s knuckles with the next breeze, and Uenoyama couldn’t look away from Mafuyu’s eyes.

_Spellbound_ .

What a good name for a song.

“…What about you?” Mafuyu asked, not even pulling his mouth out of the scarf to be heard. If anything he burrowed himself deeper, only his eyes peeking up from the fluffy fabric. “Aren’t you cold?”

_‘Not as long as you look at me like that,’_ Uenoyama thought—and then kicked himself for it because.

_Honestly_ .

His hands fell away from Mafuyu’s body as Uenoyama turned around. “So… are you gonna lead the way or do you want to stand here all day?”

“Mm,” Mafuyu replied, but before Uenoyama could ask to what he was saying yes, Mafuyu turned around as well and started walking towards the station. “This way.”

“Oi—wait!”

The station was well packed and full, considering it was so early on a Sunday. People came and went as Mafuyu and Uenoyama made their way deeper into the building; it helped with the cold, all those bodies pushing and pulling against them, but Mafuyu did nothing to pull the scarf away from his face, and Uenoyama did nothing to move his hands from his pockets as well. They simply walked side by side, shoulders touching when someone threw one of them against the other in their rush, in silence.

The car of the train was even more crowded than the station itself which—made sense, Uenoyama guessed, but that didn’t mean he was okay with it. Everyone seemed to lose the concept of personal space when pushed into what was essentially a tin can, and so he could only groan and wince whenever the train jostled everyone in the car and at least three elbows found their way into the spaces between his ribs.

People kept pushing, and still Uenoyama wasn’t getting any closer to Mafuyu. With the way his face was set into an unreadable expression, it was difficult for Uenoyama to know if Mafuyu was bothered by the people around them. The only indicator of him being slightly bothered by the sea of bodies was the fact that he had moved his guitar case from his back to rest between his and Uenoyama’s chest.

In a way, Uenoyama felt flattered. The small gesture meant Mafuyu trusted Uenoyama with the Gibson, that he trusted him to protect it from the rest of the world. It made sense, considering how many times Mafuyu had let Uenoyama cradle the guitar in his arms to change the strings.

But in a darker, sadder way, Uenoyama only felt apprehension as he looked down at Mafuyu, and found him with his gaze lost in the black of the guitar’s case, his nails digging into the seams that kept the whole thing together.

He was holding onto it so hard, Uenoyama feared not even the calluses on his fingertips would prevent the skin from breaking apart.

“Don’t you ever listen to what I tell you?” Uenoyama muttered into the space left by the guitar, into the silence of the train’s car. Making sure no one could see, Uenoyama grabbed Mafuyu’s hand in his and pulled it away from the case, rubbing his thumb soothingly where the skin was red and swollen. “Take care of yourself, idiot.”

The train lurched again, faster this time, and Uenoyama could feel himself tilting back with the force of it, unstable on his feet as the people around him did nothing but make him lose his equilibrium faster. Except Mafuyu clung to his hand and pulled—not enough to make Uenoyama fall forward instead of backward like he was, but enough to save him from having to apologize profusely to the businessman right behind him.

Mafuyu was still holding his hand tightly in his by the time Uenoyama regained his footing; he didn’t seem in the mood to let go.

“Sorry,” Mafuyu said, even though he had nothing to apologize for.

Uenoyama could only guess. “How long until we can get off?”

Mafuyu didn’t even need to check the stop names rolling through the screens above the train doors. “Four more stops.”

_Four!?_ Where were they going, fucking Miyagi? Considering they had been riding the train for a while now—were they even in Tokyo anymore?

“It’s far away,” Mafuyu said unhelpfully, eyes no longer fixed on the guitar’s case but fleeting upwards, towards Uenoyama. He almost seemed to be waiting for something, to be _asking_ for something.

In the beginning, Uenoyama would have been completely thrown off by it all. The moments when Mafuyu did express himself clearly were few and far in between, and it didn’t help that most of them happened on top of a stage with a microphone close to his lips. But what the Uenoyama of the beginning couldn’t have understood —what the Uenoyama of the present was only beginning to see—was that Mafuyu said much more with his silences than with his words.

It simply took time and care to learn to listen to what wasn’t being said.

So, with care (and a very, very deep blush), Uenoyama pressed closer until only the guitar stood between them, snug against their chests, and sneaked a hand around Mafuyu to keep him close. The train was too packed for anyone to notice or to care, but still Uenoyama kept his next words quiet, and only for Mafuyu.

“That’s alright,” Uenoyama said, and closed his eyes there where he was resting his cheek against the side of Mafuyu’s head. The scent of his shampoo was comforting and familiar. “I told you, right? I’ll go wherever you want.”

The hand in his shook, then gripped firmly. A moment later, Mafuyu let his forehead drop on Uenoyama’s shoulder.

Four stops later, they still hadn’t moved an inch.

* * *

Uenoyama didn’t even know the name of the neighborhood, but Mafuyu knew his way around easily. He didn’t drag Uenoyama around, not exactly—they were walking side by side, the only sounds on the deserted street being the quiet slosh of melted snow under their boots and the rubbing of the Gibson’s case against the back of Mafuyu’s coat. But still, Mafuyu’s hand seemed to be guiding Uenoyama through the unknown streets, past cozy houses and children’s playgrounds.

It seemed like a good place to live. Tranquil and warm in a way that boisterous Tokyo could never be. It calmed Uenoyama as they walked, the homey scents and the soft silence making him relax after the awful train ride.

But any sense of calm banished as they started to reach their destination, pushed away by two pressing thoughts that sent Uenoyama’s heart into the worst kind of overdrive.

_Why_ .

And—

_I should have known._

Graveyards in such small neighborhoods held a different kind of air. Sorrow and sadness hung in a different way here than they could have ever done in those of bigger, more populated cities. In the graveyards of small towns, of small neighborhoods where everyone knew each other, each tombstone held a familiar name, and each deep recess in the wall held the remains of a loved one. It wasn’t about gentle disposal here; it was about building a monument to someone lost, so they could always find their way back home.

Yuki’s grave was something like that. Nothing out of the ordinary—there was no grand statue signaling the resting place of Mafuyu’s boyfriend, no special engraving that made this tomb more loved, more cherished than the rest. Uenoyama could have imagined a Gibson engraved into the stone, or lyrics from a favorite song accompanying the family name, if he had dared to imagine. But the tombstone was the same muted gray as the others around it, placed in a random lot of dirt, surrounded by random people.

And still, Uenoyama could feel it. The links that joined this point in the earth to the people who knew him, to the people that loved him. Like guitar strings, tense, about to snap.

This was it; the epicenter to an earthquake that had shaken up so many lives that it could be considered a natural catastrophe.

_Yoshida Yuki._

The picture of a grinning boy greeted them; it was what people like to call a contagious smile.

Uenoyama felt his stomach try to squeeze itself into non-existence.

“Sorry,” Mafuyu muttered, but Uenoyama had no way to know if he was talking to him or Yuki, so he said nothing.

Instead, he squeezed the hand with which Mafuyu was still holding on to him and said. “You should have told me.”

The snow on the streets and every stone around them couldn’t be more than a few hours old even though it was quickly melting, but the gravestone was immaculate. Someone had come in the early hours of the morning to brush the snow away, even if the skies seemed not to be done with unleashing that white flurry. On the grave, just as clean as the stone at their back, sat three objects: a framed photo, a white flower, and a blue pick.

Mafuyu had his eyes fixed on the picture before he looked down and his hand on Uenoyama’s went slack. “I’m—“

“I mean, I don’t have any offerings with me right now,” Uenoyama said. He only had a couple thousand yen on him and a condom; he doubted Mafuyu’s boyfriend would be happy with any of those coming from—well, _Mafuyu’s boyfriend. _

“Y—“ Mafuyu started to say, but his words got lost in his hesitation, and only his hand made Uenoyama turn to look at him; he was clinging impossibly hard to it, but Uenoyama didn’t mind. When Uenoyama looked, Mafuyu’s eyes were shining. “You don’t have to—offer anything…”

“Well I’m just standing here, I _have _to offer—oh, wait!”

He _did_ have something, after all. With a quick movement, Uenoyama let go of Mafuyu’s hand to slide his backpack over his side and onto his chest, quickly rummaging through it with a set expression. “I’m sure I had—aha! I got your favorites while I was waiting for you after work the other day,” Uenoyama explained as he presented Mafuyu with a battered container of cookies. “Damn it, they’re all probably crumbles by now—stupid train… But well, he was your childhood friend, so maybe he liked the same cookies you do…?”

Mafuyu blinked down at the cookies, mouth pursed. Uenoyama felt a small prickle of fear poke at his heart—he was probably overstepping some kind of line, some unspoken rule that said ‘you shall not present a dead man’s boyfriend with cookies by said dead man’s grave’, or something like that—or maybe Mafuyu was just done with Uenoyama trying to give Yuki battered konbini cookies and this had been a stupid idea, hadn’t it, he should have just tossed the condom onto the tombstone—

But Mafuyu gathered the crumpled package in his hands like it was the most beautiful thing in the world —like Uenoyama had miraculously changed the strings of his guitar all over again for the first time—, and with a small voice, said: “He’ll like them. Thank you, Uenoyama-kun.”

“Ah—M-mhm.”

The moment Uenoyama pushed his backpack to its rightful place on his back, Mafuyu’s hand found its way back onto Uenoyama’s palm. “Would you…sit with me here?” Mafuyu asked, each word sounding like it was being pulled out of him.

But his voice was as sincere as when he sang, and his hand squeezed Uenoyama’s in a way that made him squeeze right back, despite the nerves fluttering in his chest. “Um, sure.”

Mafuyu flopped down onto the dirt, guitar case following the movement and sitting awkwardly over the dirt, but Uenoyama took a moment longer to move. He didn’t want to sit _on_ the grave; it felt like a sacred place, meant for those who knew Yuki as something else beyond the guy in the tomb’s picture. So Uenoyama squeezed his tall body in the space between Yuki’s tomb and the next, apologizing silently when his long legs brushed against the other tomb’s dirt, before he pulled them back quickly under his body.

Next to him, Mafuyu was using his free hand to leave the cookies by the picture. Uenoyama observed, trying not to feel like he was intruding in a special moment. The cemetery was completely silent around them—one could hear snowflakes fall, if it were to start snowing again.

“…I don’t come here much,” Mafuyu admitted as he sat back down onto his own heels, uncaring —or maybe unaware—of how cold the ground was. “I—haven’t been here since the funeral, actually.”

“…Then why today?” Uenoyama asked back, eyes not on the hunting picture of the boy long gone, but on Mafuyu. Mafuyu, who was lifting his hand to brush his calloused fingertips over the indentations on the tombstone, touch fickle and loving at the same time.

It took Uenoyama a second to realize Mafuyu’s fingers weren’t just tracing Yuki’s name blindly; instead, they were resting right on a set of different kanji, almost as if pointing, if it wasn’t for the lax way Mafuyu’s hand hung in midair.

It was the date.

_Today’s_ date, just a few years back.

“I—“ Uenoyama started to say, but something sharp and cold had made of his throat his home, choking him. Was it really okay for him to be here, _today_ of all days? Why had Mafuyu brought him along?

_Why why why—_

“I wasn’t sure,” Mafuyu started softly, as if aware of Uenoyama’s inner turmoil, and trying his best to answer. “I’ve tried to come here—before. But I always ended up walking around instead. I thought… If I had someone with me, then…”

Mafuyu couldn’t even meet Uenoyama’s eyes. He was fiddling with the ends of the scarf around his neck, eyes fixed on it as if it was the only thing in Mafuyu’s little word. His hands shook against the soft fabric, along with his voice, and Uenoyama—

Uenoyama couldn’t stop himself from burying his hand in Mafuyu’s hair, and bringing him closer.

“You were right, then,” Uenoyama said lowly, forehead pressed against the side of Mafuyu’s head. They were both tilted sideways, Uenoyama’s fingers gentle but shaking against Mafuyu’s scalp. His light hair was soft between Uenoyama’s fingers, but it was Mafuyu’s shaky breath against his cheek that had Uenoyama’s undivided attention. “You did it. You’re here, Mafuyu.”

“I don’t—I think—“ struggling, Mafuyu closed his eyes and leaned his weight against Uenoyama, just like he had on the train. Then his shoulders dropped, and the next exhale that Uenoyama felt against his skin felt a bit like letting go. “I don’t think I’m doing it right. I still don’t know what to say. And I didn’t bring any offerings…”

“Well—isn’t that why you brought your guitar along?”

At that Mafuyu leaned back, big eyes blinking at Uenoyama with a question swimming in them. Uenoyama sighed and also leaned back, using the hand that had found a home in Mafuyu’s hair to rub the back of his own head. “I mean—“ he continued after a second, clearing his throat when Mafuyu didn’t look away. “You found a way to communicate what you feel, right? With your music? I’m— I’m sure Yoshida will understand, if you tell him that way.”

Mafuyu seemed frozen over the tomb, face as pale as the stone before them. But then he jumped slightly in his place, and with all the care in the world he moved the guitar case to his front, cradling it against his chest like he always did. His eyes, however, were clear now, almost excited, as he looked down at the black fabric in his lap. “Do you think I could?”

“Sure,” Uenoyama replied with easiness.

It seemed to be all Mafuyu needed.

The zipper was loud in the stillness of the cemetery. Another soft sound followed right after—the strings of the Gibson, pulled tight enough that they rung when Mafuyu pulled the guitar out, as if excited to be allowed to play. The cemetery was an amalgam of blues and grays, but the Gibson was a striking red in the midst of it; like a moth to a flame, Mafuyu’s fingers caressed the smooth plastic, before setting over the strings.

Uenoyama only had eyes for Mafuyu when he started to sing.

“_Like snow that refuses to melt…”_

The song found its place in the silence of the place. It didn’t disturb the peace; if anything, it added to the feeling of reunion that hung there, of longing, of pain, of loneliness. Mafuyu sang lowly, his beautiful voice calling to the memory of a lost boy, and telling him a story that went beyond the lyrics of the song.

Uenoyama closed his eyes to the chill of winter and the softness of the music. He had thought he would die if he ever heard Mafuyu sing about someone else, once upon a time. But now, Uenoyama simply felt like everyone in that live house must have felt, the first time Mafuyu sang: that deep, deep loneliness that would never be forgotten, but that could be allowed to heal, if given time.

Because he couldn’t grab Mafuyu’s hand, Uenoyama let his head fall on Mafuyu’s shoulder, eyes still closed.

The music didn’t stop, and Mafuyu did not hesitate.

* * *

As the last notes of Mafuyu’s song got lost in the winter sky, Uenoyama realized Mafuyu was crying.

Uenoyama had never been good at this sort of thing. Yayoi had never cried in front of him —she was never a crier but a hurler, throwing things around the room instead of letting her tears fall. And he had never had younger relatives, kids to console and cheer up when things went wrong. So Uenoyama was at a loss when Mafuyu turned his head and cried against the crown of Uenoyama’s head, fingers still on the strings and white with the force of their pulling.

Mafuyu wasn’t good at expressing himself? What bullshit.

It was the rest of the world who failed to meet up with the fire of his emotions.

“Mafuyu—“ Uenoyama started, but in the end he did the only thing he could do: he pulled Mafuyu’s fingers away from the guitar one by one, saving the strings from being snapped and Mafuyu’s fingers from being cut. Then, without allowing himself to hesitate, he lifted Mafuyu’s hand to his lips, pressing soft kisses along the angry skin. “You did good, Mafuyu. You did _great_.”

Mafuyu choked, breathing harshly as he pressed himself closer against Uenoyama. He was still crying, but the slow movement of his head against Uenoyama’s was clearly a nod.

He would be fine, Uenoyama knew as he moved his lips to kiss cold-chapped knuckles.

Mafuyu would be alright.

A slow clap made them both jump and look over their shoulders. There was someone behind them—two people, actually, sitting down a few feet back on the cold ground. One of them was hiding their face on their pushed up knees, only a mop of badly dyed blond hair visible past all the winter clothes. Next to them, a black-haired guy was looking at Uenoyama and Mafuyu with an even gaze as they gave one last clap. His face was as serious as Uenoyama had always seen it.

“Hiiragi,” Mafuyu sniffled, looking from the mop of hair to the guy next to it. “Shizu-chan.”

“Hey,” Shizusumi said. He wasn’t smiling, not quite, but Uenoyama could almost have said his eyes were soft as he looked at Mafuyu. “That was beautiful. Sorry we listened in.”

“It’s alright,” Mafuyu shook his head. He too seemed softer now. Uenoyama could still spy tear tracks down his cheeks, but the line of his shoulders was the most relaxed Uenoyama had seen it in all of that day, and so he allowed himself to relax too. “Is Hiiragi dead?”

“He might be,” Shizusumi replied with a shrug. Next to him, Hiiragi kept hiding his face in his knees, his shoulders shaking softly in silence.

“Hiiragi,” Mafuyu called, crawling over the tomb to kneel in front of Hiiragi and poke his hair, right where the natural brown was darkest. He kept poking there when he got no answer. “Oi, Hiiragi.”

“Leave me alone!” Hiiragi shouted, voice muffled still, but his hand shot upwards to stop Mafuyu’s poking like someone would bat away a bothersome fly.

Mafuyu was relentless. “Hiiragi.”

“Ugh, what?”

“Are you crying? Are you a baby?”

“I’m not a baby!” Hiiragi exclaimed, and finally he lifted his face—a mess of a face really, with red eyes from crying and the cold, and snotted, tear-tracked cheeks to boot. “Shut up already!”

Shizusumi pulled out a tissue and handed it wordlessly to Hiiragi, who snatched it off his hand to blow his nose loudly on it. Uenoyama watched the three of them interact, blinking his eyes at every new movement; childhood friends sure were weird.

“Have you guys been here for long?” Mafuyu asked after a while, returning the Gibson to its case. His hands were starting to get red from the cold, Uenoyama realized; he would have to remind Mafuyu to put his gloves on later.

“We just got here,” Shuzuzumi replied with a shake of his head. Hiiragi seemed too upset to speak still.

“Hiiragi. Did you like the song?”

Hiiragi rolled his puffy eyes. “Why are you asking—I already heard it, you know? Does your band only have one song or what.”

“Oi, pudding head,” Uenoyama intervened, glaring daggers at Hiiragi, who quickly glared back. “Don’t insult our band!”

“Who are you calling pudding head, grumpy face!?”

Shizusumi’s hand was so fast that none of them saw the movement, only heard the sound of his palm smacking the back of Hiiragi’s head—and then Hiiragi’s wail as he cradled the back of it, pained tears clinging to the corners of his eyes.

“Shizu-chan! Why did you hit me!? And wait— why did you hit _only me!?”_

“Because you’re making a ruckus and this is a resting place,” Shizusumi replied simply. “Stop it, Hiiragi.”

Next to Uenoyama, Mafuyu let out a soft giggle. It was too soft to be heard, but Uenoyama felt it just the same. He turned, eyes wide at seeing the smile playing in Mafuyu’s lips— and then blushed when Mafuyu turned a softer version of that smile towards him.

He did look better now, Uenoyama thought, feeling relief unfurl deep in his chest. _Good_.

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Mafuyu was saying when Uenoyama managed to snap his attention away from the gentle smile that still graced Mafuyu’s lips. He had missed part of the conversation, most likely, but Mafuyu getting up onto his feet and brushing the back of his pants was cue enough; Uenoyama got up with a grunt as well, while the other two stayed sitting close to the tomb.

“Thanks,” Shizusumi said with a nod. Then, with a fleeting look at both Uenoyama and Mafuyu, Shizusumi added. “It was nice seeing you. Both of you.”

“Yeah,” Mafuyu replied, just as Uenoyama nodded. The case now back on his back, Mafuyu waved at his friends with his hand as he started to walk, his other hand pulling Uenoyama along by the sleeve of his coat. Despite everything, he was still smiling, “You too.”

Hiiragi said nothing. Mafuyu’s eyes stayed on him a second longer before drifting down towards the cemetery’s entryway, mouth now hidden in the fluffiness of the scarf. Uenoyama looked between Mafuyu and Hiiragi once, wondering if he should prompt Mafuyu to say anything—but it wasn’t his place, was it? And Mafuyu knew better about this, anyway—

“Mafuyu.”

They had already turned their backs on Mafuyu’s friends when Hiiragi called him, voice rough but still firm. Mafuyu stopped and Uenoyama with him. There was a moment when Uenoyama thought Mafuyu wouldn’t reply, wouldn’t even turn to look—but then Mafuyu looked over his shoulder towards Hiiragi, who frowned hard at Mafuyu, and Uenoyama had the same thought all over again: _childhood friends sure are weird._

“What.”

“…Stay around,” was what Hiiragi said after a slight hesitation, ungloved hands clinging tight to his own ankles. He had a stubborn set to his jaw, as if asking such a thing pained him, but had decided on asking just the same. “Let’s go eat ramen after this. All of us.”

Mafuyu didn’t reply right away. Instead, he chanced a glance at Uenoyama, who observed the scene by Mafuyu’s side. He was asking for Uenoyama’s opinion, Uenoyama knew, but it was the same thing again, wasn’t it? This wasn’t Uenoyama’s place to decide. So he shrugged, absolutely fine with whatever Mafuyu decided to do.

Uenoyama couldn’t promise he wouldn’t try to kick pudding head if he insulted the band again, though.

“…Alright,” Mafuyu said in the end, along with a short nod, and while there was no way the others could see with the way Uenoyama’s scarf was wrapped around Mafuyu’s neck, Uenoyama could still see a gentle smile curling the corners of his lips up. “We’ll see you later, then.”

Another tug at his sleeve set Uenoyama into motion, and together they walked outside, as Shizusumi and Hiiragi stayed behind to share some words with their old friend.

* * *

“…Are you sure you don’t mind staying for lunch with them?” Mafuyu asked after a while.

The streets around the cemetery were deserted. With the threat of snow in the air and the quiet atmosphere, Uenoyama could understand. It seemed like the cold could chill you to the bone.

“It’s alright. I know they’re important to you.”

“Mm,” was all Mafuyu replied for a moment, but when Uenoyama looked over at him there was a teasing glint in his eyes. “Shizu-chan, if anything.”

Uenoyama smirked, but didn’t push further. They still had a while before lunchtime, and there was no way to know when Shizusumi and Pudding head would be done. Maybe they could go to some café to warm up…?

A sound at the side made Uenoyama look at Mafuyu. Mafuyu was looking at him intently, naked hand stretched towards Uenoyama with the palm up, as if waiting for Uenoyama to drop something in the center.

Uenoyama looked at the palm, then back at Mafuyu, only to feel heat crawl under the skin of his cheeks. “I-if you want to hold hands then just say so!” Uenoyama exclaimed, slapping his open palm against Mafuyu’s and holding on tight to his hand in a gesture that could almost be described as harsh.

But Mafuyu simply giggled at it, squeezing Uenoyama’s hand before making them swing back and forth lightly between their bodies. “But you go beet red if I do ask you to hold hands—“

“Maybe because you only ask at weird times!”

“This isn’t a weird time, though?”

“Gaaah, whatever—“

It felt nice, to hold hands like this, even through Uenoyama’s thick glove. But it felt even nicer when Mafuyu bumped their shoulders together and then stayed close, the length of their arms pressing against each other with every new step. Uenoyama could feel his own blush burning at the tips of his ears, and by the way Mafuyu giggled softly into the scarf, he did too.

But that felt nice as well; Mafuyu laughing, Mafuyu walking close and holding his hand tight when he had looked nothing but lonely back at the grave, with the Gibson singing sadly on his lap.

As if reading his thoughts, Mafuyu’s smile subdued a little. Uenoyama immediately squeezed his hand gently, trying to bring that smile back. But Mafuyu seemed deep in thought once again, gaze lost on the deserted street as they walked.

“Mafuyu…”

“—Thank you. For coming with me today.”

Uenoyama stopped walking, and Mafuyu had no choice but to stop with him, gaze soft and uncertain. Like this —not meeting Uenoyama’s eye, bundled up in winter clothes and mouth hidden behind Uenoyama’s scarf — Mafuyu looked incredibly small, like the cold winter air would carry him away and Uenoyama would be left behind with only the memory of Mafuyu’s warm hand in his. This wasn’t the Mafuyu of every live show—that Mafuyu was intense, burning with the fire of thousands of suns. The Mafuyu Uenoyama had kissed for the first time.

And still. Still, Uenoyama loved every kind of Mafuyu. The small one, the burning one, the passionate one, the teasing one. All the parts that made Sato Mafuyu—Uenoyama loved them.

Even the part that would always lay in that cold grave.

“…I’ll come anytime,” Uenoyama said, words rushed and almost mumbled, but reaching Mafuyu’s heart nonetheless. “Whenever you want me to. I’ll come back with you.”

Mafuyu’s answer was a squeeze to his hand, and a smile that he never gave anyone, except Uenoyama. “Thank you, Uenoyama-kun.”

The sun felt a little bit warmer, winter a little bit more alive, as they continued walking down the street.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
